"Well, so it does; I will tell you how. This poor girl was beautiful enough in your own fashion to be your sister, and when I first saw you"—
"Monsieur," said the guide, respectfully lifting a forefinger to his hat as he approached, "I think it looks like rain."
The man had spoken in English. Ruth went crimson to the temples, and
Lynde's face assumed a comical expression of dismay.
"Looks like rain," he repeated mechanically. "I thought you told me you did not understand English."
"Monsieur is mistaken. It is Jean Macquart that does not spik English."
"Very well," said Lynde; "if it is going to rain we had better be moving. It would not be pleasant to get blockaded up here by a storm—or rather it would! Are the animals ready?"
"They are waiting at the foot of the path, monsieur."
Lynde lost no time getting Ruth into the saddle, and the party began their descent, the guide again in charge of the girl's mule. On the downward journey they unavoidably faced the precipices, and the road appeared to them much steeper than when they ascended.
"Is it wind or rain, do you think?" asked Lynde, looking at a wicked black cloud that with angrily curled white edges was lowering itself over the valley.
"I think it is both, monsieur."